


Your Face Reminds Me Of A Flower

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Florist Ben, Fluff, Mother's Day, Shop Cats, tattoo artist Rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: Ben trips over a strange girl in his shop and finds his life upended.ORA tale of shop cats, bad tattoos, container gardening, and love in unexpected places.





	Your Face Reminds Me Of A Flower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nymja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/gifts).



> This is for nymja, who was kind enough to let me play in their sandbox after I read the absolutely delightful  
> [alderaan places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636725) and fell in love with the idea. 
> 
> Title from Liz Phair, because somehow "Exile In Guyville" became my writing music.

Ben Solo got his first and only tattoo on his 19th birthday. He was home from college for the weekend and visiting old not-quite friends; Hux swore up and down that his friend Mikata was apprenticing somewhere, that all the equipment in his basement studio was totally sterile, sure, no problem, a discount for the birthday boy from a good artist who would only get better with practice. 

Ben was just drunk enough to believe him. He woke up the next morning with a vicious hangover and something that was probably supposed to be a rose tattooed on his left pec. 

Ten years later it’s still there. The ink blew out a long time ago and it’s a faded mess of red and bluish-black, but Ben is nothing if not proud and like hell is he going to admit he wants a coverup. There’s nowhere in town he could go where word wouldn’t get back to his parents and then Han would ask why he didn’t just come to Corellia’s Own, Uncle Chewie would be disappointed, and Leia would give him That Look.

Ben hates it and hates when anyone asks him about it, but not many people are in a position to see his chest anyway. It’s fine. Totally fine.

*

It is not, as it turns out, totally fine. 

With just under a week until Mother’s Day, Ben’s patience for anything that isn’t food, sleep, or music is rapidly diminishing. Floristry isn’t exactly rocket science, but First Order Flowers has a reputation to keep up and Ben has  _ standards.  _ Things like color theory and composition and harmony, all of which get trickier to keep up as his inventory decreases faster than he can refill it. 

He’s back in the studio scrubbing MiracleGro out of the sink when something chimes out front. Ben ignores it; he’s already locked up for the night and it’s probably just Maz jumping up on the highest shelves and swiping at the bells again, or his delivery boy Thanisson (“courier, Ben,” his mother would correct) dropping off the day’s record. He gathers up the rose buckets and heads for the front refrigerator to put them away, only to trip, stumble, and swear viciously when the motion splashes water and plant food all down the front of his white shirt.

Still swearing, Ben shoves the roses in the refrigerator and whips his shirt off without bothering to unbutton it. He always keeps a spare t-shirt in the back; it’s not ideal but it’ll get him through until-

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” says an unfamiliar feminine voice.

Ben goes still and doesn’t answer. He looks around for the speaker, but there’s no one around except Maz, blinking balefully from her cat bed on the window sill.

“Are you all right?” asks the voice.

“We’re.  _ Closed, _ ” Ben grits out, too annoyed to be worried about someone breaking into his shop.

A young woman’s head pops out from under one of his display tables, her messy brown hair a stark contrast to the pristine white tablecloth. 

“I think you tripped over my leg,” she continues. “I was drawing, and-  _ oh my god, why aren’t you wearing a shirt?! _ ”

She disappears back under the table. Ben is about to reach down and pull her out but she emerges from under the far side with an open sketchpad in one hand. She’s at least a head shorter than him, no older than about 22 if he had to guess, wearing a sleeveless Joy Division t-shirt and tiny pair of denim cutoffs over ripped leggings. Her upper arms are covered in tattoos. 

“Listen, this has been fun and all, but since you’re here to play hide-and-seek and not actually buy anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

She brandishes her sketchpad. “I was drawing!”

“I don’t care what you were doing, it’s after hours, you broke into my shop-”

“I didn’t break in. Han gave me your spare key.”

Oh. Wonderful. She knows his father, which means she also knows his mother, and his adopted uncle. That’s just outstanding. Ben grits his teeth.

“Which means you can  _ give it back. _ ”

She doesn’t appear to be listening. Instead, she’s staring at his chest, which makes Ben’s ego sit up and take a bit of notice. That is, until she opens her mouth.

“That’s got to be the worst rose tattoo I’ve ever seen. Like, that is about twelve different kinds of bad.” She moves closer, fingers raised to touch, but Ben steps back.   
  
“Do you seriously just go around breaking and entering and touching strange men?”

It comes out harsher than he intended and she frowns. Ben feels a flash of guilt then ruthlessly shoves it down. They’re strangers. It’s nothing.

“I told you, I didn’t break in, and it’s professional curiosity, so you can get over yourself. Are you going to let me finish drawing, or not?”

Ben opens his mouth to say no. What comes out instead is,

“Fine. But hurry up.”

She beams and ducks back under the table. Ben goes to get his shirt.

*

She re-emerges maybe ten minutes later with her sketchpad open and a pair of pencils holding her hair in a bun.

“God I forgot what a pain in the ass chrysanthemums are to draw. Here, check it out.”

She shoves the drawing in Ben’s face. It’s...better than he expected. Much better. She’s talented, he’ll give her that. Out loud, though, he just hums noncommittally.

“I’m doing this as a thigh piece for my friend Rose tomorrow,” she continues, then glances at the clock. “Shit, it’s late. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Ben’s stomach growls loudly and it makes the girl laugh.

“Sure you’re not. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

*

She drags him down the street to Dameron’s, where Ben is immediately accosted by Poe’s overweight polydactyl cat BB-8, who meows and waddle-winds around his ankles. He’s never understood why everyone seems to love BB-8 and his strange companion is no exception; she bends down and scoops him into her arms, cooing to the tubby orange and white menace.

“Got a new friend, BB?” Poe calls from behind the counter. “Oh, hey Rey! And Ben,” he adds with a wink. “Making nice with my cat, finally?”

“Your cat is a health code violation.”

Poe just smiles. “Whatever you say, bud. You guys want your usuals?”

“Thanks Poe,” the girl, no,  _ Rey,  _ answers. “And put Ben’s on my check.”

Poe’s smile gets bigger; his eyes flick over and Ben can already tell he hasn’t heard the last of this.

“You got it. Grab your drinks, go sit down, and I’ll have your food right out.”

Ben chooses the overstuffed armchairs in the corner usually reserved for the afternoon coffee crowd and waits for Rey to complain about having to share the small table between them. Instead she settles in easily with BB-8 perched on her thighs. 

“So. Ben, huh,” she starts. “Ben the florist. How come I never see you in Corellia’s Own? Kinda weird to work right next door to your parents and not pop over.”

He’s not about to explain  _ that _ relationship to a stranger, let alone defend it. “I didn’t pick my shop’s location. It was there when I inherited it. From my grandmother,” he adds when her expression turns questioning. 

“Oh. That’s...not what I was expecting, somehow, but okay. You must’ve been close to her, if she left you her shop.”   
  
“I was,” Ben agrees.

Poe brings over their food then, a pesto chicken sandwich for Ben and a falafel for Rey. “Here you go. Enjoy, guys,” he says, and winks  _ again.  _ Ben’s tempted to ask if he’s developed a facial tic. 

He looks closer at Rey’s tattoos while they eat. Ben’s met all manner of tattoo artists throughout his life; some, like Uncle Chewie, are inked practically from head to toe, while others, like Han, have only a few pieces. Rey, though, is somewhere in the middle: both of her arms are half-sleeved in intricate botanical designs. Ben picks out agave, pencil plants, cacti, lush succulents, even a Joshua tree.

“Why all the desert imagery?”

“Hmm? Oh. It’s where I grew up, actually. Out in Jakku.”

He makes a face. “I’m sorry.”

“There are probably worse places,” says Rey with a shrug. “Anyway, I’m out of there now, and you never told me what you thought of my chrysanthemum.”

Ben pauses halfway through a mouthful of chicken and nudges BB-8 away with his foot as he looks at her drawing. It’s good, better than he expected, the natural result of talent honed into skill through long hours of practice. She’s got an eye for detail and composition and she’s looking at him like his opinion actually matters to her. Ben clears his throat.

“If the client likes it, then it’s fine,” he says, and Rey rolls her eyes.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“Why are you like this?”

“He’s always like this,” puts in Poe as he walks by. “You guys want refills?”

Ben should say no. The sooner he finishes his food, the sooner he can leave. He holds out his mug instead.

*

In the end he sits through two more refills. He walks Rey back to her battered orange pickup truck parked behind Corellia’s Own and stands by the driver’s side door, hands shoved in his pockets. Ben’s unsure how to end...this, and angry at himself for it, because ‘this’ is nothing. A one-off. That’s it.

“Thank you. For dinner,” he says after an awkward silence.

“No problem. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Ben nods. Rey smiles, touches his arm, then hops inside her truck to start the engine with an ungainly clunk. Ben doesn’t stick around to watch her drive off, walking instead back to his Accord to head home for the night.

Her touch lingers.

*

Ben’s elbow-deep in carnations with his calligraphy pens and ink in easy reach, humming along to the music when Rey comes in the next afternoon. She’s in much the same clothes she had on last night, shorts, leggings, motorcycle boots, band t-shirt. Danzig, he notes with approval. Her hair is tied back into three buns and there’s an eraser behind one ear. She strides behind the counter like she owns the place and takes out her phone.

“Here. Just finished this up on Rose.”

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Ben says as a reflex, but he wipes his hands on his apron and takes the phone with only a small sideways glance at her.

It’s a woman’s thigh, slightly irritated and shiny with ointment. A bouquet of flowers blooms across her skin, yesterday’s chrysanthemum along with peach flowers and a lotus blossom. Each flower transitions from simple black linework and minimal shading into vibrant watercolors without losing any of their form or accuracy. 

“I don’t see the connection,” says Ben. “Why those three in particular?”

“Rose’s parents are from Vietnam. She wanted something to represent her heritage.”

He nods in understanding and hands the phone back. “It’s a fine tribute.”

Rey beams and Ben’s ears heat up. He’s barely spoken to this girl, he doesn’t know her, and even worse, she knows his parents. None of this bodes well for him.

“So when are you gonna tell me about that nightmare on your chest?”

Ben’s hand tightens around his pruning shears. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Rey just laughs and bends down to let Maz sniff her hand. “Sure there’s not.”

He finishes the arrangement and eyes it critically. Red, white, and pink make for a more candy-colored effect than he prefers, but it’s what the customer ordered, so his opinion doesn’t matter. A flourish of ribbon, an authoritative snip of his scissors, and he’s done. Now for the card.

“‘Everything I am, I owe it all to you, Mom,’ Rey reads as she peers over his arm. “God, that’s cheesy. More like, ‘sorry I don’t call enough, have some twigs that’ll die in a week.’ Your handwriting is gorgeous, though.”

It’s Ben’s turn to preen. He’s worked long and hard on his penmanship and he’s very proud of it. 

“It would be great for a tattoo,” Rey wheedles.

“You’re NOT turning my handwriting into a tattoo font,” says Ben, closing his inkwell and setting the card aside to dry.

“Why not? Unlike you I know how to take care of healing ink, it’ll look awesome! Come on. Write me something.”

“No.”

“Maz says you should,” says Rey, cuddling Maz close to her chest and scratching under her chin while Maz purrs like the traitor she is. “Right, angel? Right.”

Two sets of hazel eyes stare at him. Ben groans. He is so, so screwed.

“What do you want me to write?”

“December 31st,” she answers instantly, like she’s put some actual thought into this.

“Fine, but this is for you only, understood? No uploading to those bullshit font creation websites, and if I see my handwriting on Pinterest or something I’m suing you for intellectual property theft.”

Ben picks up his pen before he can talk himself out of it and writes out the date. He lets it dry, holds the card out to Rey, then pulls it back when she reaches. 

“Don’t. Don’t mess it up,” he gets out, suddenly unsure of himself in a most unwelcome way.

She smiles and lets Maz down before taking the card. “I won’t.”

*

Ben learned a long time ago that people buy flowers for a whole host of reasons beyond a simple gift. There are the over-the-top ‘I’m sorry I cheated’ dozen roses, the ‘Let’s not make this awkward in front of the kids’ holiday bouquet, the too on-the-nose ‘We’re not estranged anymore, right?’ peace lily. Each arrangement is a message in itself and it’s not his place to judge, rather it’s up to him to help get that message across.

Mother’s Day, like most holidays, makes that a little more difficult, as emotions run high and tempers reach new lows. Ben’s a florist, not a therapist; he’s on better terms with his mother than he’s been in years, but that doesn’t make dealing with his customers’ feelings any easier. He adjusts his playlists accordingly.

“Alexa, play Defcon 3.”

The familiar notes help smooth his edges like they almost always do. Ben rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, ties his apron strings, and gets to work.

If he glances up at the front door and looks over toward Corellia’s Own a little more than usual, it doesn’t mean anything at all.

*

Rey comes in when he’s halfway through eating his lunch and flops her arm on the counter, barely missing Ben’s food. 

“Well?”

That...oh god, she actually did it. That’s his handwriting on her inner bicep, December 31st etched permanently into her skin. Ben’s throat goes dry and he wants to reach out and touch; only propriety and too many overheard lectures on tattoo care keep from from doing it.

“I did it last night,” says Rey, and lifts her chin. “So? What do you think? I didn’t mess it up, right? I think it looks awesome.”

Two days. He’s known this girl two days. She shouldn’t be able to render him speechless or make his heart do strange things. Her eyes are wide and there’s something vulnerable about her smile when Ben forces himself to look back at her.

“No, you didn’t mess it up. Why that date, though?”

Rey opens her mouth, then shuts it again as her face turns mischievous. “Tell me about your tattoo first.”

Ben doesn’t dignify that with a response and instead turns back to his meal. It’s nothing fancy today, just some leftover stir fry and rice. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Rey staring longingly at his food.

“Did you eat lunch yet?”

She sighs. “No. Poe’s place is jammed and I’ve got an appointment at two, so there’s no time to go anywhere else. I gotta download DoorDash like a normal person-”

Ben doesn’t wait for her to finish. He pushes his Tupperware in Rey’s direction and fishes an extra plastic fork out from the box under the front counter.

“Here.”

“Dude, I didn’t come over to get a pity lunch-” 

“It’s not a pity lunch,” Ben interrupts. “You can make it up to me later, call it even.”

She hesitates for a moment, then dives for it. “You’re on,” says Rey, smiling around a mouthful of rice. 

She’s a fast eater, Ben notices, fast and constantly watching the peripheries around her food. He files that away for later and pretends not to notice when Rey sneaks Maz a piece of chicken. 

*

Closing time comes and goes, but Ben is still working. Thanisson’s not trained yet - Ben’s toying with the idea of taking him on as an apprentice - but he can do very basic arrangements, and so the easier pieces are done. Or they will be, once Ben stops correcting them. He hears the door open and the soft ‘flump’ of paws when Maz leaps off her bed to go greet their visitor; Ben comes out, expecting Rey, only to find his father leaning against the counter.

Han looks like he always does, in jeans and a ratty old shirt Leia’s been trying to sneak in the trash for years. The tattoos from his navy days are long faded into his weathered skin, but other pieces, the good ones like the compass and sextant with Leia’s and Ben’s names, are aging well. 

“Kid.”

“Old man.”

Ben’s never quite figured out if they argue because they’re too different or because they’re too similar. Just like with Leia, though, things are better than they’ve been in a long time. They regard each other quietly for a moment, until neither one can contain the smirks and awkward laughter. 

“Your mother,” Han starts, with great gravitas, “wants to go to brunch on Sunday.”

Ben blinks. “I thought she said brunch was for lobbyists and socialites.”

“I know. But it’s Mother’s Day and it’s what she wants, so I went ahead and made reservations at Twi’lek House. For three.” He looks at Ben carefully. “You gonna be able to make it?”

There was a time when Ben would have chafed at the assumption. A piece of him still does. He tells that piece to shut its useless mouth and nods at his father.

“What time?”

*

Maybe it’s his good mood at completing a family interaction that didn’t involve yelling or breaking things, maybe it’s the uptick in profits brought on by the month’s holidays. Whatever it is, Ben deliberately makes too much pot roast for dinner, packs two sets of leftovers, and makes a plan.

*

Corellia’s Own hasn’t changed much since the last time Ben deigned to come inside. Hell, it’s barely changed in Ben’s lifetime, from the AC/DC on the stereo to the cracked leather seats in the waiting area that stick to unwitting thighs every summer. Tattoo needles buzz like wasps and the faint smell of disinfectant hangs in the air. The only things different are the flash art on the wall and the third portfolio. Rey. Rey Kenobi. Okay.

Despite her own tattoos being mostly blackwork, Rey’s style favors stunning vibrant colors in contrast to Han’s more traditional pallet and Uncle Chewie’s greyscale portraits. There’s no denying Rey is very good at what she does. Of course she is. Han wouldn’t have hired an amateur. There’s an edge to her work, though: rusting machinery, creeping vines, violent swathes of ink visceral as brushstrokes on the more abstract pieces.

“See something you like?”   


Her voice startles Ben out of this thoughts. “Yes.”

Rey’s cheeks pinken and he realizes he’s staring. At her. Like a moron. Ben clears his throat and looks away. He shoves the container into her hands. 

“Here. You should eat lunch more.” God, what does that even  _ mean? _

“I just finished,” Rey says slowly. “Um. Thanks, though?”

Ears burning, Ben nods. He should never have come here. “Right. I’ll see you later, Rey,” he says, and hurries back to the safety of his own shop.

*

An hour later, he’s assembling corsages when his phone vibrates once, twice, then a third time. Great, Thanisson is lost again. Ben puts down the Italian ruscus and reaches for his phone, ready to rip his poor delivery boy - courier -  _ whatever,  _ a new one for not using the GPS like he’s supposed to, then stops when he reads the messages.

_ Okay, so this is really good,  _ reads the first, followed by  _ If second breakfast can be a thing then so can second lunch,  _ and  _ OMG what did you do to these potatoes?!?!?! _

Ben frowns at the strange number.  _ Who is this? _

_ Rey. Chewie gave me your number. _

He should be annoyed at that, and he is, but it’s accompanied by something like pleasure. She likes his cooking, she doesn’t think he’s creepy. Okay. Okay, that’s good. Ben’s fingers hover over the screen as he debates what to say next. Eventually he settles on,

_ Shouldn’t you be working? _

She sends back a quick photo of her sketchpad tucked up against her knees, where a half-finished sunflower is coming to life. The light from the front window lends a golden cast to her bare skin and there’s a hint of ankle sock peeking out where her feet rest on the edge of her chair. 

_ Shouldn’t you be? _

_ I’m always working,  _ Ben replies. On a whim he takes a picture of one of the finished corsages. 

Rey answers almost right away. _Pretty! Cymbidiums, yeah?_

He should’ve guessed she’d know that.  _ I didn’t have you pegged as an orchid person. _

_ I’m not, really. They’re pretty and all, but they’re not for me. Next time you stop by I’ll show you what I’ve got growing at my station.  _

Maz leaps up on the work table where she’s not supposed to be and bunts her head lightly against Ben’s bicep. Her soft brown fur is a comfort under his fingers as he thinks about what to say next.  _ Next time,  _ she said, as if she’s already thinking about seeing him again.

_ Finish your drawing, Rey. _

She sends him a string of sunflower emojis. Ben bites his lip to hide a smile, then turns back to his work.

*

The Saturday before Mother’s Day is nothing compared to the annual hell that is Valentine’s Day, but First Order’s voicemail is crammed with pleas, demands, and outright bribery offers in among the orders. Ben sighs, scribbling notes with one hand and pecking figures into Excel with the other. It’s going to be a long,  _ long _ day, and he’s got no qualms about abusing his authority to send Thanisson out for coffee between deliveries. 

“Alexa, play Defcon 1,” says Ben, and braces himself.

*

Half an hour after closing time, Ben is still working, with no end in sight. He’s paying Thanisson double to stay late while he handles the arrangements, but he’s tired and cranky and beyond ready to be done.

Someone knocks on the door. He ignores it and stays in the back. They’ll fuck off eventually.

Sure enough the knocking stops, quicker than he’d anticipated, and instead his phone vibrates with a text.

_ Let me in :)  _

Rey. It’s been such a stupid day he hasn’t thought to text her or go next door, lest she be subjected to his mood. Ben wipes the ink off his hands and goes to let her in. If she gets scared off, fine. If she doesn’t...he’ll deal with that in due time. Maybe.

“You didn’t just use your key?” he asks, opening the door a fraction.

She shrugs and wriggles past him. “Nah. Thought I’d be traditional today.” She looks at the madness around the shop. “You’re in luck. I brought reinforcements.” 

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Really. Where?” 

Rey gestures at herself. “Right here, duh.” She cracks her knuckles. “C’mon. Put me to work."

There’s a look in her eyes that dares him to argue. Ben sighs. It’s not like he’d tell her no, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Fine.”

Rey follows him into his back studio, stopping only to scratch Maz behind the ears. She studies what he’s working on, the wheels in her mind practically visible as she nods to herself occasionally, taking in every detail with an artist’s eye.

“Okay, so your harmony is good and you don’t mind taking risks with movement in your design plans. Even when you’re keeping the colors relatively basic you’ve always got some flair to it and you’re an absolute stickler for scale, am I right?”

It’s a little frightening just how right she is. Ben nods and hands her an apron. The place in his ribcage he’s started to think of as hers keeps doing strange things as they work, and it gets worse when he notices her singing along with his music.

“You know My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult?” he asks.

It comes out more incredulous than he meant it. Rey gives him a deadpan look. 

“You’re one of  _ those _ , aren’t you.” It’s not a question.

“One what?”

“You’re an asshole about music.”

“I am not,” says Ben. He has  _ standards.  _ There’s a difference.   


“Oh, bullshit, you’re not. I saw you glare at my shirt the day we met and I kept waiting for you to demand I name five non-album New Order singles or something.”

He’d been so annoyed with her that night that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Ben exhales through his nose. “I didn’t, though. Letting one’s gatekeeping tendencies out in front of strange women is just asking for trouble.”

Rey laughs. “At least you’re honest about it. I can’t believe you’re playing this in a flower shop. Shouldn’t it be more...I don’t know, flowery?”

“My name on the deed means I can listen to whatever I want,” says Ben. Then, because it’s Rey, he adds, “I do have some soft jazz Celine Dion covers, if you’d prefer that instead.”

Her face scrunches up in distaste and she laughs again, just like he’d hoped.

*

The night passes as peacefully as it can under the circumstances and somehow Ben’s mood actually improves. Rey’s presence doesn’t irritate him; she doesn’t try to fill the silence, or even worse, try to change the music. It’s easy to imagine having her in his space more often, much more often, watching him work or sketching with Maz tucked up against her side.

“Ben.”

“Hmm?”

“December 31st.”

“Yeah?” Rey isn’t looking at him, but it feels important to give his full attention. “What about it?”

“You asked me why I wanted that date. It’s when I left Jakku.”

Ben doesn’t quite know how to respond, so he makes what he hopes is an encouraging sound. 

“I got out, and I’m never going back. That’s something worth commemorating.”

“It is,” he says softly. Jakku is a notorious shithole. He doesn’t blame her for never wanting to return. “Are your parents still there?”

“I don’t know. I never met them.”

Despite all the shit in his family - both what he’s put his parents through and vice versa - Ben can’t fathom not having a foundation to tell him exactly who and where he came from.

“I. I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“So much about growing up there was...it sucked. A lot,” says Rey. She turns to look at him, finally, and the steel in her eyes takes Ben’s breath away. “Han saw my work at the Cloud City Tattoo Con last winter, offered me this job, and I took it. Never looked back.”

He manages to nod. “You did the right thing.” And then, because fair is fair, he adds, “I was drunk when I got my tattoo. I woke up, it was there...not one of my finer moments.”

“No kidding,” says Rey. “Whoever did that had way too heavy of a hand and should never have done it if you weren’t sober. Stupid. How come you never got it covered up?

“By who? My dad? Chewie? Hell no. I’d still be hearing about it.”

Rey hums. “I guess. If someone else did it, though, they wouldn’t have to know about it, right?”

“Yeah, well. You live, you learn, you hope no one looks too closely at the monstrosity on your chest.”

“Trust me, if someone’s seeing you with your shirt off, they’ve got a lot of other things to look at.” 

Rey makes a face and Ben watches her replay the words in her head. “Oh fuck, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

He grins and Rey swats his arm. “Oh shut up, Solo.”

Ben decides not to point out that he didn’t say anything. 

*

The next morning brings brunch and indecision. Ben stands in front of his closet for ten minutes before settling on a navy jacket over a black t-shirt and black jeans with the same pair of battered black boots he’s had forever. It’s armor in a way; he’ll be comfortable regardless of how awkward the next few hours of his life get.

The nerves settle low in his stomach on the drive over to Twi’lek House and the scent of peonies hits him as soon as he walks in the door. Memories, so many memories of spending his afternoons in First Order Flowers with his grandmother while he waited for his parents to finish up for the day. Padmé’s soft hands on his, teaching him how to cut flowers and imparting her secret vodka and sugar recipe to make them last longer in water. Peonies were her favorite.

Ben spots Han and Leia in a booth over against the far wall and his nerves morph into outright dread. His feet carry him over without real thought; this was a bad idea, they’re going to end up fighting about egg yolks or something equally stupid-

Leia stands up. She only comes up to the middle of Ben’s chest and her graying hair is braided into a circle around her head, but her eyes are sharp and she’s as imposing as ever. She looks him up and down, then presses a mimosa into his hand.

“Mom, what-”

“Liquid courage,” says Leia. “It was this or a Bloody Mary, and I know you hate tomato juice.”

“Really?”

Leia shrugs. “Why do you think I wanted to have brunch? It’s the earliest socially acceptable time to start drinking in public.”

Ben can’t fault that logic. “Cheers,” he says, and clinks his glass against hers.

*

Later that afternoon, after Ben’s taken a champagne nap and flopped on the couch, something like a plan starts to form in his mind. It’s insane to be thinking about arrangements during his precious downtime, and yet.

And yet.

That old toolbox under the sink back at the shop isn’t doing anything besides rusting. There isn’t a wedding planner, garden center, or decorator in town who doesn’t owe him a favor, and Ben has no qualms about putting the fear of missing roses into anyone who won’t help him get the plants he needs. Lowe’s is on the drive over, he can pick up a bag of good sandy soil in the morning-

Not afraid to take risks with movement, Rey said. Okay.

*

Rey texts him on Monday, in the middle of his afternoon off that Ben is most definitely not using for some impromptu container gardening. He borrowed a drill from Poe to bore some drainage holes into the toolbox and he’s lining the bottom with gravel to get it ready for the succulents. Ben always keeps a few in stock since they’re pretty consistent sellers, but this is on a whole different scale. This is every variety he could find within a 20-mile radius.

His phone vibrates again. Rey. Right.

_ Let’s say someone were to draw you a coverup. _

Ben finishes transplanting the last of the burro tails before he answers,  _ Hypothetically.  _

_ Hypothetically. What would you want?  _

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before, but he’s never come up with a good answer. _Something...I don’t know. Something that won’t bug me in 20 years._

_Ha. No promises there._ Rey’s typing again. _Bc I’ve been thinking about it. Black hellebores would look awesome on you._

He blinks at that. He’s got nothing against hellebores, per se, it just never occurred to him as an option.

_Helleborus niger or one of the black hybrids?_

_ Don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to trick me :P Helleborus niger blooms white.  _

Ben grins, just a little sharp. She’s quick.  _ Draw it up and I’ll think about it. _

It seems she’s learned to read him well enough to know that means yes, because Rey sends a string of red exclamation point emojis, then,  _ come by at 6? _

(Ben almost drowned over Memorial Day weekend when he was six. It scared him enough to keep him away from swimming pools most of that summer, seething with jealousy and shame as everyone else had fun without him. That Fourth of July he forced himself up the ladder on the diving board and stared down at the water, terrified beyond all reason yet determined to never be afraid again.This...Rey...feels a bit like that.) 

_ 6 o’clock,  _ Ben types out.

He presses send, and it feels like jumping.

*

5:57.

Any second, Ben’s going to pick up the toolbox and head next door. 

5:58.

Really. Any second now.

5:59.

Goddamnit, Solo.

*

Eventually Ben musters his courage, gathers the toolbox under one arm, and forces himself over to Corellia’s Own. It’s Led Zeppelin over the speakers today, which means...oh, shit. No, no, it’s Monday, Han and Chewie go to the races every Monday; they’re not supposed to be here, and yet there’s Han, walking out front and wiping his hands on a paper towel. He smiles crookedly at the plants in Ben’s hands.

“Special delivery, kid?”

“Not here for your opinions, old man,” snaps Ben, but Han just laughs.

It puts Ben on edge and every step back towards Rey’s station feels more and more like walking to his doom. She’s tidying up, humming as she goes, unaware she’s got company. There’s something beautiful about her in her element, surrounded by framed sketches, bits and pieces of salvaged scrap metal, and a riot of plants on her windowsill. The spider plant is propagating happily and her miniature cactuses are well-tended. A fresh hellebore stencil waits on her work shelf next to the ink bottles. It’s a strange mix, all of it, but it’s  _ Rey.  _ It’s her space, like First Order is his.

Ben’s loath to break the moment and alert her to his presence, but he knocks his foot on the wall. She looks up and beams, then notices the toolbox in his hands. Rey’s expression softens, her eyes wide, cheeks pink. He’d done his best to match the plants with Rey’s tattoos and it mostly succeeded. He eyes travel across the container, lips half-forming their names. Ben holds his breath. 

“You made that,” she says, after a moment.

“I did.”

“For me?”

He grits his teeth. Talking isn’t his strong point; hasn’t anyone ever given her- no. No, actually, it’s doubtful that anyone back in Jakku would have recognized how amazing Rey is, let alone wanted to make sure  _ she _ knows it.

“I don’t do container gardening for just anyone,” Ben tells her, and holds out the toolbox. Rey moves her spider plant and gives it a place of honor on her window sill, with a nice amount of light. There. Something of his is in her space now, welcome there.

“This is…” Rey looks at him carefully. “This is a thing, right? You and me, I mean. Obviously the plants are a thing. Multiple things.”

Ben does the only thing he can think of and kisses her. It takes a second for his brain to register he’s kissing someone; it’s been a while since he’s done this but his body remembers. Oh, it remembers, and Rey’s small hands are fisting in his shirt, holding him close, and she’s smiling against his mouth, he can taste her happiness.

“Does that answer your question?” he asks when they part, and puts a hand on the small of her back to keep her close to him.

Rey hums. “I don’t know yet. Later, when I’m not at work, you should kiss me again so I can see.”

Only the sound of Chewie walking loudly by keeps Ben from making ‘later’ into ‘right now.' “That’s fair.”

“Good. Okay.” Rey sounds a little breathless. “Right. Right. Okay. Um. Get your shirt off and we’ll get started.”

*

Ben leaves Corellia’s Own with a hellebore tattoo on his chest and Rey’s hand in his. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ben's [Defcon 2](https://open.spotify.com/user/c3aww29g5iovvt8eljdowrkbx/playlist/4idzxnBOgA7mEexzGPmfLH) mix is here for your listening pleasure. 
> 
> [This](https://everythingsucculent.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/img_0432.jpg?w=652&h=489) is the arrangement he makes for Rey.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [bigneonglitter](https://www.bigneonglitter.tumblr.com), if that's your jam.


End file.
